


Perennial

by LittleLinor



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Devil Survivor
Genre: Gen, Implied Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are five years old, and your parents don't understand why you won't say you love them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perennial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intaglionyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intaglionyx/gifts).



You are five years old, and your parents don't understand why you won't say you love them.  
"What's wrong?" your mother asks. "Did we make you angry?"  
You try to explain that no, they didn't, and even if they did being angry wouldn't change whether you loved them or not, but they don't understand, and you soon give up, like almost every other time, because most humans don't understand what love is, and those who do don't expect a five year old to know.  
You don't hate them, of course, despite what they think, they're nice people and they take good care of you, and it would take much, much more than a bit of neglect or refusing a tantrum for you to come to hate them (hate is such a strong word). But you know, you remember what love is, and despite the comfort you feel from the safety of living with them, love isn't that.  
And you refuse to lie.

You are five years old, and you have trouble playing with the other children, because they all forget so fast, both friendships and slights, and you can't make yourself trust them. One day one of them tackles you, half petty revenge for something they won't remember tomorrow and half childish playfulness, and before you can control yourself you've flipped them and your hands are around their neck. Memory hits you in the stomach and you let them go.  
They stop forcing you to play, after that.

You are six years old, and you have new parents now.  
You miss your parents, at first, but losing people is a pain you're all too familiar with, and you know the best way to spare yourself is to just let them go. Your uncle and aunt are nice, and they treat you extra carefully after your "tragedy". They don't try to force you into any declaration, and you appreciate that.  
You start going on your new father's computer more and more. It fascinates you, that people can now have them in their homes when a couple of decades ago they were gigantic things hidden in army HQs and labs. He is so relieved to see you actually show enthusiasm for something that he lets you, and when his job makes him buy a newer, faster machine you inherit the old one. You start playing around with its programs until you know them by heart, just like you took an interest in automatons once, and it doesn't take you long to figure that in a way they work the same.  
For the first time in a long time, you actually find interest in your life.

You are seven years old, and you have a new little brother.  
You've seen your aunt's stomach grow over the last months, with a mild interest that used to be fascination once, and now you peek curiously at the newborn in his craddle (surprisingly, almost worryingly quiet, for a newborn, enough that people wonder if there is something wrong with him. But he looks out with wide eyes full of curiosity, and you feel both nostalgia and kinship, remembering what it was like for life to be a miracle). He has blue hair and blue eyes, and his parents smile when you reach in to offer him a finger and he catches it in his little fist. 

You are eight years old, and it's dawning on you with creeping, nauseating certainty that this little brother isn't new after all.  
You're not sure why you know, whether it's part of your curse or whether you've just grown to know him inside and out, every glance, every laugh, no matter his age. Maybe it's his wide eyes, the blue that seems too deep, almost expressionless until his body betrays it. The way they stay fixated on you whenever you're around, until family friends joke that he seems to notice his brother more than his mother. Maybe it's the personality that you're already starting to see, the core you've learnt to know by heart and the subtle things that change every time you see him. People wonder at how good you are at reading him, guessing what he needs, as if his incoherent babble and cries were a language you can somehow speak. But you know from experience, and more often than not you take care of things, rather than bother explaining to adults.

You are eight years old, and you wonder whether this is why you loved him at first sight.

You are twelve years old, and you watch him care for his new sunflower with a mixture of fondness and bitterness.  
He stares at it with serious eyes, as if it would grow right there if he paid attention enough, until you snort your amusement and decide to help him, if not with your hands (unlike some, you are not cruel at heart), at least with your knowledge. You tell him what to look out for, how to tell if the earth is too dry, or when a leaf is too crisp, and to make sure never to give too much water in one go.  
You teach him patience, that sometimes the most promising seedlings are the ones who take time to grow, that sometimes, too, you have to cut off the weaker flowers to allow the stronger ones to bloom. 

You are fourteen years old, and you are the one with the state of the art computer, now.  
You bought it with years of money you didn't spend, and by now you have long left the interface behind to play with its programs.  
People have always murmured "gifted", but usually it was often followed by "problem child." Now the word that's starting to emerge is "genius", from friends of your parents to the people you meet on the (beautiful, fast-growing) internet. You apply all your accumulated knowledge to it with a passion you haven't tasted often, and the coding, the logic yields under your hands and your brain. The programs fall into place, obey you, growing with increasing complexity, and you see potential, so much potential.  
"Is it hard?" he asks you, coming to sit on your lap as you scroll through a wall of code to check it for faults.  
"Not really. Programs are like people. You just need to know the logic behind them."  
"So how does it work?"  
You give him a simplified explanation and watch him nod silently, explain how it comes into play in his favourite video games to see his eyes light up, and hold yourself back from explaining what you meant about people. Some things are better left unsaid.

You are sixteen years old and in trouble for "bullying" a kid a few years younger than you.  
It's not true, of course. You have no attention to waste on people like him, petty people with petty goals and petty grudges, but no one bullies your little brother and gets away with it.  
You never touch him, you don't need to (and touching him would bring too many memories anyway, creeping sensations on your hand that you can never quite chase away, and the likes of him have no right being asociated with that memory, being put on the same scale), but when you're done talking to him you can see in his eyes that he has no doubt you would actually kill him, and beyond that one scolding you never hear from him again.  
"Did mom and dad hurt you?" your brother asks when he comes to check on you that night.  
You snort.  
"Of course not. They can't."  
"Even your feelings?"  
"Especially those. That's not something _they_ can touch."  
You're glad he doesn't ask if _he_ can, because the dismissive response isn't quite ready on your lips.  
But he is only nine, and hasn't yet reached the point where he can disarm you.

You are nineteen years old, and moving out in a week.  
He's sad to let you go, of course, in that quiet way of his, but his parents have explained that big boys need to leave home to spread their wings and become men, and that he can visit as often as he wants, as long as he always tells them where he is. They don't vocalise their slight relief, the way your influence on him was starting to make them feel uncomfortable.  
But you understand, because you've been thinking the same thing. Saplings grow best when they have access to the sun, instead of being shadowed by taller trees. And for what you have in mind, you want him to stand tall, on his own.  
You were both robbed of choice once, and you won't let it happen again.

You are nineteen years old, and you know, just like when you were five, that hate cannot be bought back with a "sorry" and a treat.


End file.
